


So naturally, please show me your bones

by stuck_inmyemophase



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Randall is Gay and Hershel does not think, Shush okay, it's very pure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:20:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23177611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuck_inmyemophase/pseuds/stuck_inmyemophase
Summary: Some things are hard to communicate.What was said and what wasn't and what was understood anyway.Or Randall's father found out he's gay and he runs to the only comfort he can think of, an exploration.
Relationships: Randall Ascot/Hershel Layton
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	So naturally, please show me your bones

To say that he was surprised when Randall had confided in him would be something of an overstatement.

Of course it wasn't expected, however Hershel could never remember a time when Randall had really shown an interest in girls (though he had only known him for a few years now). Even Angela seemed more of a friend to him than a girlfriend, never being treated in that gentle, loving way one would expect from a partner. No light touches, hushed secrets, little moments between them. There was simply an absence of that which Hershel hadn't really paid any mind to. Hershel assumed that all of Randall's interest was consumed by his passion for Archeology.

So, though the idea had never really occurred to him, Hershel wouldn't call himself surprised when Randall came out to him as gay.

 _"This is something I haven't even told Henry,"_ he said in a panic one summer evening, _"I just can't risk my father finding out. I didn't know who else to tell but I can't just keep it bottled up any longer!"_

It became their secret. Hershel had never had a closer friend.

They continued to study under their sturdy old tree as per usual, if not more frequently with many more distractions. And once the rainy days came Randall was welcomed into Hershel's room invited or otherwise, where he would lounge on Hershel's bed to read his notes or talk endlessly at him and Hershel would kick him in the side so he'd have room to at least sit (they no longer studied at Randall's house since the last time Hershel had angered his father. Some stories are best left untold).

Study sessions became adventures which became boys bonding. Boys bonding became long discussions, openness, deep talks which were not unfamiliar, but we're previously hesitant and nervous, danced around. Trust became looks and little touches, fingers brushing fingers, hands gripping arms pulling the other in as close as they would get to a hug without risk. Study sessions became sleepovers where the pillows and blankets on the floor sat forgotten as Randall lay by Hershel's side, far enough away that were weren't touching, but still something was shared that Hershel wasn't sure he could share with another person.

Randall became all that was on Hershel's mind. Hershel could never remember a time when Randall had really shown an interest in girls. Another thought plagued him as he attempted to force a remembrance for himself. He thought girls were pretty. There was a girl he knew before he moved away, he liked her a lot but was always too afraid to talk to her. He never did and she was pretty. Angela was pretty though Hershel found the thought of a relationship with her disturbing. She was his friend.

Perhaps Hershel hadn't ever had an interest in women. He'd never liked any men either, had he? Though the amount of times he'd been so tempted to grab Randall's hand, just to hold it. He recalled how his breath had caught when Randall smiled at him, how all Hershel really wanted to do now when they hung out was look at him. Randall was warm and he made Hershel's chest tighten in that familiar pleasant way. Like when you see a puppy, but so much more.

He didn't bring this up with Randall. A part of him wanted to. Another part of him was afraid, which was ridiculous, as if Randall would hate him for being gay. It wasn't like they didn't talk about it, in fact, when it was deep into the night, Randall would sometimes bring up his fears. Of his father, mostly, however there was also the deep fear that one day he might get hurt (die (unspoken)) because someone could hate him, could harbour so much disgust towards him. The thought made Hershel's stomach twist, he'd find a part of Randall to touch, then, grab his arm or his hand, squeeze it and let him know he was safe, reassure himself that he was safe. Hershel never brought up his own thoughts, but Randall began to sleep much closer to him after that. And he was certainly not opposed.

Little touches became long ones, but only when they had traveled deep into the forest, safe and far away. Fingers brushing fingers became lips brushing lips - only once, spur of the moment - which turned both boys bright red and twisted their to tongues so that they refused to talk about it, couldn't for fear that they might choke. Hesitance to be close became hugs and taps and grabs which lingered and waking up in a tangled mess together on a Sunday morning (they would quickly part, and never speak of it, but Hershel always smiled when Randall wasn't looking).

Tuesday, a weeknight, and Randall had already stayed the weekend before (too many times would be suspicious and so he often only stayed the night every few weeks) Hershel awoke to tapping on his window.

Tapping would not be the right word for it, it seemed, as it sounded more like the clunk of a pebble hitting glass, and the aim was clearly poor as Hershel soon after heard rock hitting brick and short, sharp, _"shit"_ travel through his half open window.

Hershel listened for another stone but it didn't come, until it did. The space if time between the throws suggested a nervousness. He already knew who it was, or at least he'd be very surprised if it was someone else, so he dragged himself out of his bed, sweet, warm comfort, to push his window all the way open. He peered down to meet Randall's gaze.

"Good heavens, what happened?" he exclaimed in a half-whisper. Randall was still in his night wear, appearing to have haphazardly pulled on his coat and shoes before dashing off. The sleeves of his purple monstrosity were ruffled in the way that suggested Randall didn't keep a hold of the end of his shirt sleeves before pulling it on. Uncomfortable, suggesting a rush. One sleeve remained halfway unfolded and it was unbuttoned despite him clearly shivering in the cold autumn air. Randall's shoes weren't tied. One's laces were trailing behind him sadly in the dirt whilst the other's were tangled and messy, a fierce determination to stay knotted vs. quick and shaking hands attempting to untie. Randall was shaking, and Hershel could see he'd been crying, could hear it in the sniff and crack in his voice. There was the beginnings of a bruise under his left eye.

"He found out" was all he could muster.

Hershel's room was not as easy to climb into as Randall's was. He tiptoed down the stairs, careful not to wake his parents. He felt sure they would welcome Randall in without question, but he also knew his pa would be grumpy from being woken, and ma would insist upon making tea for the poor boy, fussing over him, inspecting his face and clothes and offering a world of things that would sound so tempting (warm blankets, fresh clothes, a hot drink), but we're awkward to accept and twisted the stomach in a way that would make one feel ill for unexplainable reasons. Neither Hershel not Randall wanted that right now.

Hershel met Randall at the front door and watched while he abandoned his shoes and coat besides Hershel's before shuffling in. They both understood the need for silence. Hershel kept a steady grip on Randall's wrist as he guided him upstairs.

They lay next to each other closer than ever before. The covers were pulled fully over their heads and Hershel's arms were wrapped firmly around Randall's back, holding him close. He shook with silent sobs, his knees against his chest and his hands gripping Hershel's night shirt like his life depended on it, the air breaking with every breath. He could hear the desperate attempt to not to make noise, if he could, were he not restricted by his own fear of being heard, being vulnerable, Randall's cries would have struck Hershel's heart (the silent one's hurt him more, now that thinks about it). He could only whisper "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know" as he moved his hands along his back in comforting rhythm until the sobs stopped and the breathing calmed.

He could have told Randall how he felt. He didn't need to. It was already said.


End file.
